


Like Annie

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For every end, there is a beginning. Everyone from the highest general to the lowest ranking soldier was once a child. Before this one left for the depths of the ocean, she once played in the sunlight like any other girl.





	Like Annie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [That_Hoopy_Frood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Ocean on their Shoulders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234892) by [That Hoopy Frood (That_Hoopy_Frood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Hoopy_Frood/pseuds/That%20Hoopy%20Frood). 



> I wrote this in honor of Hoopy's Bioshock crossover, give it a read when you have the time!

The Hawkeyes had been doing better than their neighbors thanks to the Depression; pestilence always followed poverty. Mama was a doctor but with the extenuating circumstances she became a dentist, a midwife, and a therapist of sorts to her patients. She treated people for cheap and if they had extra food left over after rationing groceries she even gave a little away, despite Papa’s grumbling. But then the Baby came and died, and a week after Mama died too, that was when the Depression finally hit them. It was like a tick. Couldn't swat it away like a mosquito and come out alright, the head stayed clamped onto the bit of skin between its pinchers and festered. It sucked what little life Papa had left after Mama died; he became gaunt and his eyes glistened with same manic shine of the other men the Depression got to.

Those years were hard on Riza. Papa wouldn't allow her to work and he didn't seem keen on working either. The same neighbors who had depended on them took pity on her and returned the favor, gave her some of their own groceries or invited her in for dinner and sent her away with a plate for Papa. When Riza got tall enough and cut her hair short enough to try and pass as a working boy FDR came to their doorstep. It wasn't the President himself but the men had the same official air about them.

“Doctor Hawkeye? We would like for you to serve your country.”

“I’m a bit too old for the draft. And propaganda.”

They were unmoved; patriotism was low among the poor, especially poor Germans immigrants.

“No, no no no. The kind of work we have is fit for a scientific man of your intelligence and standing.”

Papa glared at them and the icebox hummed loudly in the lull in the conversation. The front hall led straight into the kitchen, Riza crouched near the entrance and eavesdropped. Whether it was the effectiveness of their elevator pitch or the sight of two tailored suited men straight from D.C. begging for his help on their sagging porch, Papa’s pride had been stroked and his curiosity piqued. He lead them up the stairs to his study. When Riza leaned around the door jamb to get a look at them the door shut behind them with a definitive click. The hour hand on the old grandfather clock had completed two circuits by the time they came out. The agents had smiles all round, sunlight glinting off their teeth, while Papa was as morose as usual. Hands were shaken, hats were doffed, and the two men walked back to their car.

“Thank you, Doctor. With you on the team, the future for our country looks bright.”

Papa did well to hide the usual quirk in his lip but when he shut the front door it sprang up quickly. He surveyed the foyer, eyes swinging from the clock to the furniture and the other knickknacks, the floorboards creaking with each step he took toward to sitting room. His brow rose in surprise when he came across Riza, as if she were a guest he had forgotten about in the hubbub of escorting the men out. He surveyed her with the same intensity he gave the furniture, assessing her and her worth in comparison and contrast with her dusty surroundings. Her outcome must have been favorable for him to smooth his brow and say, “Start packing up. We’re moving to Los Alamos.”

The map at the public library revealed Los Alamos to be in New Mexico and the train tickets that came in the mail days later showed that it was going to take almost two days just to reach Albuquerque. Papa said to take what was necessary and leave everything else, the government would provide them with everything they needed when they arrived. Like Daddy Warbucks adopting Little Orphan Annie, they were going to be whisked away from their old life of leaky ceilings and three day old grits with cracklin. 

Most of the boxes were packed with books from the study; Riza’s meager belongings were relegated to one large traveling trunk and she still had room left when she was done. Books, extra clothes, and other amenities for the trip were put in Mama’s favorite carpet bag, the floral one she used for housecalls. Papa grumbled over her using it and with the coming and going of the moving men, the last days of the Hawkeye house almost reminded her of the early days when Mama was alive. Neither of them had many friends to part with. Papa had always been a loner and Riza spent more time running from good American children to get to know any of them. 

Los Alamos was green. Green with Douglas firs and blues spruces, from the electric lights and government money funneled into the labs. It was unlike the Western movies Riza watched; the West was always a giant desert, empty save for the settlements where cowboys and Indians had drunken shootouts. Father, not Papa anymore, it was an embarrassment, a girl as big as herself calling him Papa in front of the all those important scientists, acted no differently than he did at home. He still secluded himself, in a lab now instead of a study, and he hardly spoke to Riza now that he could have meals in the cafeteria, negating her having to bring him a tray, the daily occurrence for father and daughter to swap single syllable conversations.

_“What’s for dinner?”_

_“Soup.”_

For Riza, the move to Los Alamos opened a few new opportunities for her. Most of the inhabitants were significantly older than herself, even the soldiers sent to guard the facilities were well into their twenties. This left her with three activities to cycle through everyday: reading, hiking in the forest, and chatting with the workers who didn’t wholly ignore her. She got along well with one young officer in particular who introduced her to rifle shooting. She took to it like a fish to water. There was something meditative to it; all that matter in the range was focusing on the target in the scope and hitting it right in the bullseye. Almost like the carnival games Mama took her to. Soon, she was shooting better than most of the commissioned officers and they couldn't ignore her anymore. One of them approached her in the range one day.

“Nice shooting there, Miss…?”

“Hawkeye, sir.” 

“Hawkeye! That's right, yer Berthold’s girl. You can handle a gun real nice. Like Annie Oakley. Ever heard of her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good! Good. Heard they made a movie about her. Could flip a coin in the air and she’d shoot it, right in the middle. Got any plans after yer done with school?”

“No, sir.”

“I see…. Miss Hawkeye, how would you like to serve your country?”


End file.
